


Cognitive Shift

by MissNaya



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alcohol, Dick Grayson (mentioned) - Freeform, Fighting Kink, M/M, Protectiveness, Rough Sex, Seduction, implied sladick, or at least implied that Slade wants to bang him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 15:30:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18210167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: When Bruce notices Slade's interest in Dick, he devises a plan to refocus his attention.





	Cognitive Shift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Autabata07](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autabata07/gifts).



> another commission, more of everyone's favorite Bat being pounded. :) what more to say?

Slade slips in through the window right on time. Dick’s place is on the 15th floor of a crummy high-rise apartment well below his price range, because the stubborn brat doesn’t know how to ask for help. Sandwiched between two casinos, neon lights leak into the dark bedroom, lighting up Deathstroke’s back in obnoxious hues of blue and purple and yellow.

Bruce reaches over and switches on the lamp on the nightstand. Seated in one of Dick’s comfortable lounge chairs, glass of scotch in one hand, he feels more like Bruce Wayne right now than Batman. While Slade stands before him in all his gear, tall and broad and dangerous with those swords criss-crossed over his back, Bruce is in nothing more than a satiny black robe.

“Slade.” Flashing a tight-lipped smile, he gestures to Dick’s bed in between them. “Sit down. Talk with me.”

To his credit, Slade doesn’t look  _ too _ surprised, but he does stiffen up. “Kid didn’t tell me he had company over.”

“Dick’s on a mission with the Titans,” Bruce says. “He’ll be back in a few days.”

Slade’s visible eye narrows. Bruce puts up a hand to silence him before he can say anything, then reaches over to where he has a scotch bottle and a second glass. He starts to pour it like he’s at a gala, the relaxed motions coming with a practiced ease.

“I didn’t call you here to fight.”

“So you did fake that message,” Slade says. “Cute. Dick know what you’re up to while he’s away?”

“No,” Bruce says, “and he doesn’t have to. You prefer scotch, don’t you?  _ Carnas an Staca,  _ 30 years old. Only 200 bottles were ever—”

“—released in the United States, yeah, rich boy, I know,” Slade finishes. He sounds on edge, but the way he eyes the scotch — and the hands pouring it — tells Bruce he’s intrigued. It’s a rare find even for someone with Slade’s resources, or so he heard from Alfred, who heard it from Wintergreen.

He smirks and holds out the glass. Slade stands there for another few moments, probably trying to decide whether or not it’s poisoned. But after Bruce quirks a brow, brings the glass to his lips, and takes a big sip, he relents and crosses the room.

Bruce makes sure their fingers touch when he hands it over. Slade lifts his mask off and takes a seat on Dick’s bed, large enough that his splayed legs alone take up more than half the length of it. He lets his gaze linger for a second or two on Slade’s crotch, and the not-so-subtle bulge of his cock. Even flaccid, it seems huge.

He looks back up to see Slade staring at him with one icy blue eye. Then Slade tips his head back and takes a mouthful of scotch, rolling it around on his tongue for a bit before he swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs down and back up again, Bruce’s eyes going with it.

“So to what do I owe the pleasure?” Slade finally asks. “Is this one last hurrah before you break that rule of yours and snap my neck for daring to canoodle with your precious son?”

Bruce laughs, low and deep, delighting in the way it makes Slade’s brow crease in confusion. “You think that’s what this is? Some sort of shotgun talk?”

“Hard to think of any other reason you’d trick me here just to wait up like I’m an hour past curfew.”

“I’m just… interested in the rationale behind your choices,” Bruce says, leaning back in his chair. “That’s all.”

Slade rolls his eye and downs more scotch. “He’s in his twenties. He’s old enough.”

“He’s young,” Bruce says. “Inexperienced. Idealistic —  _ painfully _ so.”

“Your point?”

Bruce rolls his shoulders in a shrug. The fabric of his robe shifts, opening up to reveal more of his chest, his collarbones. Bare, save for the overlapping scars from years spent crimefighting.

Slade notices. Bruce notices him noticing.

“He doesn’t seem like your type,” he concludes.

This time, it’s Slade’s turn to laugh. It’s loud and booming enough to almost shake the room.

“Yeah? And what do  _ you  _ think my type is?”

Bruce looks off to the side, refilling his own glass as if he needs a moment to think it over. In reality, he’s already analyzed Slade Wilson’s sexual preferences and cross-referenced his sources many times over. He can say with relative certainty that he has a complete picture of what the mercenary gets off on.

But for the sake of the performance, he hums.

“You  _ do _ seem to prefer younger partners,” he says, trying to keep the judgment from seeping into his tone. “But you’re not a fan of the drama that comes with them. And Dick loves his drama.”

Slade chuckles in such a familiar way that Bruce can’t help but twitch. Much as he’s putting on an air of civility, it’s hard for him to keep a straight face when he thinks of Dick and Slade together. Harder still to think that Slade knows him well enough to pal around with Bruce about him like they’re friends.

“He sure does.” Nodding in agreement, he tips his glass back, swallowing more this time. Either the conversation or the scotch brings a smirk to his face. “But damn if he doesn’t look good flipping around like a contortionist pixie.”

This time, Bruce has to clench his jaw to keep from doing something stupid. Among descriptions of Slade’s general sexual attitudes and preferences, all his previous partners seemed to agree on one thing: he’s an ass.

“I don’t think looks are the defining factor for you,” he continues through gritted teeth. “I think you prefer… power.”

Slade looks at him like he’s funny in the head. “Yeah?”

Bruce nods. “Adeline Kane: accomplished veteran, trained you when you first enlisted. Lillian Worth: excellent martial artist who defended you from the Khmer Rouge. Tara Markov—”

“I get it, I get it,” Slade interrupts, throwing his hands up to stop Bruce before they can go down  _ that _ road. “What’s your point? You know I don’t have the patience for your bat-psychology crap.”

“You’re not interested in Dick Grayson,” Bruce says. “You enjoy the thrill of the chase. The idea of taking someone powerful and making them bend underneath your control. You’re a hunter, Slade. It’s in your blood.”

Slade eyes him up for a moment, trying to look skeptical, but Bruce can see the flicker of agreement on his face. He masks it by draining the rest of his glass.

“Alright,” he says, smacking his lips once every drop of scotch is gone. “Let’s say you’re right. What does all this have to do with you? Aside from being the Grand Ambassador of Nosing Around in Everyone’s Business?”

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Bruce uncrosses his legs, offering up a quick glimpse of his briefs underneath his too-short robe. Slade watches him as he sets down his own glass and picks up the bottle, crossing the brief distance between desk and bed until he’s standing flush in front of him. Bruce starts to pour a second glass, dark lashes partially obscuring the blue of his eyes. Blue that he knows isn’t much different than Dick’s own shade.

“I’m offering you a chance,” he finally says. “A chance at a more interesting… ‘trophy.’”

Slade blinks. Then blinks again. He tosses back his scotch, blinks a third time, and seems to conclude he’s not dreaming or hallucinating.

That’s when he laughs.

“No. No, you’re not— You’re dead serious, aren’t you?” He sits back, and this time, makes no secret of the way his eye rakes up and down Bruce’s body. “That’s what this whole Victoria’s Secret getup is about? Jesus.”

It’s Bruce’s turn to blush, brow furrowing as he glares down at Slade. For just a brief moment, he lets a bit of Batman show through in his expression, carefully calculated to spark Slade’s instinctive desire to compete with him.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me, Wilson,” he says. Reaches out to finger one of the straps running across the chestplate of his costume, tugging at it, Slade unyielding underneath. Still and strong as a brick wall. “I’ve felt it in how you fight me.”

“Felt what, Wayne?” Slade asks, voice a couple octaves lower than it was a moment before.

Bruce leans forward until he can almost feel the prickle of Slade’s facial hair up against his chin. The smell of expensive scotch is strong on his breath, almost overshadowing his natural musky scent. It’s not the sort of thing he’d have ever imagined himself being attracted to, but it suits Slade. Sharp, bitter, and masculine.

“How badly you want to beat me,” he says, lowering his own voice in kind. “To step on me. To have me underneath you, even if only for a little while.”

He feels more than sees Slade’s lips lift up into a smirk. It’s followed by the soft  _ clink _ of him setting down his glass on the bedside table.

“I see where Grayson gets his ego from,” he says. “Maybe I just want a pretty young thing to bounce in my lap. Ever factor that into your little MENSA analysis?”

Bruce meets his haughty gaze with an intense one of his own. Flattening his palm against Slade’s chest, he drags it down, down, stopping short just above his crotch. Slade, he notices, stops breathing about halfway through.

“I have,” he says. “And, to be frank, I don’t give a damn what you want to admit to. But I know you’re not going to get what you want from Dick.”

“Yeah?” Somehow, Slade’s managed to get even closer, their lips brushing with every syllable. “Why’s that?”

“I told you already,” Bruce answers, his other hand pushing up the inside of Slade’s thigh. “He’s…  _ inexperienced. _ ”

“And I guess you’re not?” Slade asks. “If I didn’t know better, Wayne, I’d almost think you were jealous.”

Bruce exhales through his nose, as if that isn’t the impression he’s been trying to give off this entire time. “Just not interested in fielding any of the fallout when the two of you inevitably don’t work out. Make no mistake, Wilson, this is an  _ offer, _ nothing more. If you’re not interested in taking it…”

“What,” Slade scoffs, “as if I couldn’t have you underneath me anytime I wanted, with or without your permission?”

Bruce straightens up, pulling back both his hands. Moving to walk away, he mutters, “Don’t get too optimistic.”

It has exactly the effect he was hoping for.

Before Bruce can so much as take another step, Slade leaps up and lunges for him. He catches Bruce by the arm and whips him around so violently that a seam in his robe rips, and as Bruce lifts an arm to block the fist headed toward his face, the robe starts to slip off his other shoulder. It’s inconvenient to fight in little more than a few scraps of silk and cotton, especially when Slade catches him in the stomach with a palm strike and sends the loosely-tied sash around his waist falling open.

Bruce doesn’t hold back much; he needs to make it feel real. If their fight were actually legitimate, he’d be using everything in the environment to his advantage, from Slade’s own weapons to the hidden stash of gadgets he knows Dick has in a compartment under his bed. Now, though, he fights with his fists alone, and Slade seems to follow his unwritten lead.

With both of them holding back, their scuffle lasts for only a few moments. Slade manages to get an arm under his robe and around his waist, pulling him close and hoisting him up until he very nearly cracks his head on the ceiling. Then he  _ slams _ him onto the bed, mattress springs groaning out in protest. The headboard strikes the wall, carving new marks into the already-chipped wallpaper behind it as Bruce squirms and wiggles and tries to yank himself free.

With Slade on top of him, one arm wrenched and pinned behind his back, it’s almost impossible, even for Bruce. He can feel the cool air from the open window ghost across the exposed part of his back and arm where his robe has been ripped away. Goosebumps pebble up across the back of his neck in response.

Slade’s heavy, oppressive force bears down on him, until he can feel that stubble again, this time scratching the soft spot near the bottom of his ear.

“Now,” he hums, voice thick with booze and self-satisfaction. “What were you saying?”

Bruce lets out a long, shaky exhale. With Slade pressed so tightly against his back, he can feel every contour and curve, every pinch of his buckles and scratch of rough fabric.

And, of course, his hard cock nestled up against Bruce’s asscheeks.

“...Slade,” is all he can bring himself to say, tightening his free hand in the bedsheets.  _ Dick’s _ bedsheets. Thinking of it in those terms makes this whole thing seem even more inappropriate, and for whatever reason, that makes Bruce’s briefs a little tighter.

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Slade breathes into his neck. “You goddamned bat-brats…”

He pulls back just far enough to rip the rest of Bruce’s robe apart, which is exactly why Bruce did  _ not _ wear anything particularly expensive tonight. He fights back again, not to get away, but to encourage Slade to keep it up, to keep all his focus on him and not any remaining thoughts he might have of Dick.

It works well enough; Slade’s like a dog in how anything that moves like prey excites him. Once his robe is out of the way, Slade goes for his briefs, yanking them down far enough for him to squeeze a hand in. The hand retreats, and a second later, one of Slade’s gauntlets falls beside Bruce’s head.

He hears a wet licking sound, then Slade’s slicked-up fingers find his hole. Callused and rough, the way they rub up against him makes Bruce stifle a moan against the pillows.

“Lubricant,” he says when Slade starts to push them in. “Bedside drawer. Behind the flashlight.”

Slade chuckles, forcing the tip of one finger just past the rim. Bruce makes an embarrassing indignant noise, unable to squirm away.

“You take an inventory of his room?” he asks, nipping on Bruce’s earlobe.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I brought it myself,” Bruce says, even though he absolutely did just that before Slade arrived.

Whether he’s convinced or not, Slade relents, pulling back to fish for the lube. He uncaps the bottle, then flips it around to bite on one end, forcing a glob of it onto his fingers while his other hand keeps Bruce pinned.

Discarding the bottle when he’s done, he says, “I believe that” in an unconvinced tone.

Seems he’s more preoccupied now with Bruce’s body, making quick work of worming his hand back between his legs to glide slick fingers against his entrance. Bruce shudders as the first finger enters him with merciless force.

“Ah,” he says, working it in and out at a punishing pace. “Hey, whaddya know? There’s no stick up here after all.”

“Slade Wilson, I swear to god,” Bruce says through gritted teeth. “Do  _ not _ make me regret this.”

Slade just laughs. He leans back a little more, and Bruce feels the burn of his gaze between his legs, watching as he fucks him open. A second finger follows soon after the first, Slade pushing down hard with every thrust, aiming for his prostate. It’s brutal and intimate in a way Bruce isn’t used to, especially as the one normally in control in the bedroom. And yet, even though it’s  _ Deathstroke _ doing this to him, he can’t help but clench down and groan when his fingers find that spot.

“That’s it,” Slade coos, sounding absolutely devilish. “Christ. You  _ do _ know how to take it, huh?”

Before he can respond, Slade pushes a third finger in, and Bruce can do little more than try to meet each one of his powerful thrusts. His cock is trapped and leaking beneath him, and, god, he’s going to have to deep clean these sheets before Dick gets back.

“Slade,” he chokes out.

He turns his head to peek over his shoulder, tousled black bangs a mess in front of hazy, lust-drenched blue eyes. Slade’s own eye widens noticeably, lips parted, almost drooling. Dick may have the cocky pretty boy look down pat, but Bruce? Seduction has been his game since longer than Dick’s been alive.

“ _ Fuck me, _ ” he says, and watches the rest of Slade’s restraint take a nosedive out the window.

Slade removes his uniform in record time, no doubt used to getting it off in a hurry. He tugs Bruce’s underwear all the way off his legs, biting his hip on the way down. Somehow, that one little nip sets Bruce’s own arousal ablaze, and he willingly lifts his hips to present himself to Slade.

The head of Slade’s cock lines up with his hole, uncut and even bigger than he thought just by looking. It has to be wider around than Bruce’s wrist, but he lets Slade press inside anyway, mouth falling open at the feeling of being filled up so completely.

Slade’s hands find his hips, and without waiting, pulls Bruce as far back as he’ll go. The absolute size of it draws a ragged yelp from his lips, but the burning ache that starts to spread across his lower body doesn’t actually feel bad. You don’t do what he does for a living without developing a bit of a masochistic side, after all.

Like his partners said, Slade is a complete animal once he gets started. He fucks into Bruce with all the abandon of a bull during mating season, snarling in his ear, slicking the way even more with precum. Bruce can feel his cock throb and twitch inside him, secretly delighting in the way Slade’s strong arm wraps around him to keep him close. It’s not often that the goddamn Batman lets someone else get so handsy with him. It’s new, strange, and tremendously exciting.

The pleasure builds so fast that it nearly blinds Bruce by the time Slade’s assault on his prostate brings him to the edge. He becomes aware that he’s making some  _ very _ unflattering noises, an accompaniment to the tune made by Slade’s grunts and the  _ thud-thud-thud _ of the bed engraving more marks into the wall. He’ll regret it later. For now, there’s only pleasure, only Slade above him, making those intoxicating noises.

He comes hard around Slade’s cock, rocking his hips back and forth to milk him of everything he’s got. Doesn’t slow down at all after his orgasm, just works his muscles until he feels Slade’s huge cock start to flood him with hot, sticky cum. Slade swears under his breath, holding Bruce tight enough to bruise.

When they finally come down from their shaking, breathless high, lying next to each other on the disheveled ruins of Dick’s poor bed, Bruce turns to see Slade grinning at him with that jackass smile of his.

“Pretty good,” he says, “but I’m gonna need to see some more of your resume. Maybe have you and Dick duke it out…”

“Not going to happen.”

Slade chuckles and rolls over in bed, apparently content to sleep there like he owns the place.

“We’ll see.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on [tumblr](https://dicktofen.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/hotdadnaya) for more general fuckery


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